Title: Five Things Michael Did for SucreAuthor:clair_de_luneCharacters: Sucre, MichaelGenre: GenRating: PGWord Count: ~ 530Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.Summary: Michael is his best cellmate in a while.Notes: Thanks to happywriter06 for the beta. (French version)

Michael is his best cellmate in a while. No doubt about that.

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Michael’s the reason why Sucre’s conjugals are done. For a phone sculpted from a bar of soap. Sure, Sucre understands that Michael needed to make sure that he was trustworthy (well, no, he doesn’t really understand, but for the sake of argument, he can pretend that he does), but damn, it was his conjugals. For a soap phone. Now Sucre can’t see Maricruz anymore. She doesn’t answer the phone when he calls her, so he guesses that a real phone wouldn’t do any good anyway. Still, Michael has his conjugals. Even if he pretends things are not what they seem to be.

Michael ruined Sucre’s reputation. His good reputation. His reputation of... Whatever. That sheet has been hung on the bars way too often and way too long. Sucre had a hunch about that, but he didn’t realize how bad it was until he started to receive questionable propositions in the yard. Sucre really doesn’t feel like dwelling on the subject, which the absence of conjugals makes even more painful.

Michael endangered his immortal soul when he forced him to drill holes in the image of the Devil. Yeah, yeah, Sucre has faith and he prays. Doesn’t change a thing. If he can avoid doing or saying certain things, he would. Better not tempt the Devil (no pun intended) and all that jazz. To be honest, that day, in the jail’s pipes, with the way the light hit Michael and cast shadows on his face... Sucre’s not quite sure that the Devil had been on the wall.

Michael endangered his existence (which is way more of an immediate a risk that the immortality of his soul, by the way) when he forced him to work with criminals. Real criminals. Murderers even. All Sucre has killed until now is a rabbit he hit on the road, and he felt sick to his stomach for six miles after it happened. But Michael made him collaborate with Linc the Sink, T-Bag and Abruzzi. All right, Lincoln’s not a murderer – probably not anyway. It’s another question Sucre doesn’t feel like discussing since Michael probably wouldn’t take too kindly to that conversation. But Abruzzi is definitely one. And Sucre just wants to vomit every time he thinks about T-Bag.

Michael forced him to rip a guard’s uniform from his back. The skin underneath it had been burnt, the fabric had melted and both had merged. Sucre will never be able to forget the smell of burnt flesh and of fear and the howl of pain. Nor the devotion it implies. Hence, as he nervously paces up and down the cell, waiting for Michael to come back from the infirmary, he thinks that Lincoln really can’t be a murderer and he feels a bit better. Because it means that there has always been someone to protect his existence; that his immortal soul will surely benefit from the fact that he’s helping to save an innocent man; that he hasn’t lost his reputation in vain.